


The Perfumist

by SinBin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Identity Porn, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Omega John, Secret Identity, Smart John, This is slightly different that accepted ABO vers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinBin/pseuds/SinBin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly back in London, John Watson is at a loss. What's a former black market supplier to do when you haven't stepped into the underworld in a decade?<br/>Before that, however, maybe he should be concerned about what he, an Omega pretending to be a Beta, should do when a grey-eyed alpha proves to be more than just compatible.</p><p>A love story that isn't so much a love story at all as a crime in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John Returns

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using the show for the first chapter or so and adding my own scenes.  
> Later, I'm probably going to be making my own crimes that they investigate. I hate just copying dialogue. There will be influences from the show but that's mostly it.
> 
> If you have any questions about my universe, just leave them in the comments :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John Watson sets foot back on English soil nearly a decade after leaving. In a different universe, he imagines, it might have felt like coming home. It might have meant  _ having  _ a home.

Now, it’s simply an unwilling return to a cage he’d hoped to abandon ten years ago.

With a tired sigh, he hoists his lone duffle bag over his good shoulder. His leg twinges at the sudden weight but holds. He still has problems with it now and again but his aromatherapy regimen had done wonders for its stability.

Harry’s flat is out. She and Clara have been having trouble and the last thing they need is another Omega roaming the flat, even if this one is related. He thinks Clara might have his head, inadvertently of course. No omega likes another around their alpha when the alpha is indisposed or, in this case, falling down drunk.

John’s last flat had been prime when he was in his early twenties. Not far off from Bart’s, big and luxurious, with Alpha-proofing that blocked out sounds and smells from the space. It had cost a pretty penny but he’d been able to afford it back then, thanks to his side business.

Now? Well, now an army pension lands him in a bedsit the size of a shoebox with no alpha-proofing to speak of. 

John looks around his new domicile, dropping his duffel to the ground. It’s grey and boring. Next door, he can hear another veteran sobbing into his pillow. He can also smell the scent of a beta getting his jollies off to what sounds like a disgusting omega gang-bang porno.

The army would never think of putting an omega into a situation like this. The army would never have put an omega on the front lines either or paid for an omega to go to med school or give an omega the title of “Captain.”

As far as the army was concerned, they never had allowed an omega to do any of that.

John squats down making sure not to tweak his shoulder as he jerks open his duffel. Inside is an assortment of clothes as well as a few personal items. He fetches his wallet from the depths as well as a small pocket knife.

He sits on his bed and carefully inserts the tip of the pen knife into the stitches at the bottom of the wallet. The blade slices through easily (John likes to keep his weapons in top shape), and the leather parts to reveal the inside lining. Between the leather and this lining is a glint of metal.

John removes the key from its hiding place and pockets it. He’s going to need a few things and quickly if he wants to survive in London.

First on his list is the ingredients to make the scent that’s been covering his natural Omega smell for the past twelve years. His time in the hospital has him down to his last bar of the stuff and it’s looking fairly grim if he doesn’t start getting that together now.

He pockets the key and his wallet, making a note to patch it up later, and, at the last moment, takes along his firearm. He locks his flat and sets off for a rather disreputable part of London where no bank would dare open up a branch for fear of having its very bricks stolen.

Or at least that’s how it used to be.

He’s discomfited to see how much Mulberry St. has changed since he’s been gone. He’d been prepared to stand out a bit; a tired army veteran in an oatmeal-colored jumper stands out against grime. But the empty stores are no longer empty. There’s a loan bank, a pizza place, even some sort of pharmacy. The homeless still lurk in the alley ways between buildings but they look furtive in what used to be a whole city of them. They watch John as he walks, not registering him as anything abnormal thanks to the other citizens around him.

Confound it. With all of these eyes, how is he supposed to get to the sewers now? Worse, if he’s able to get in, will his cache even still be there?

One problem at a time.

John eventually finds a manhole cover just behind a truck parked on the street. The entrance he remembered had been covered since he’s been here last and the second grate is in the center of a Tesco’s now. The good news about this new entrance is that, with the truck parked where it is, no one, not even the newly installed CCTV cameras, sees him when he pries it open and slips drops into the sewer below.

His memory doesn’t fail him, thank the lord. The tunnels are just as confusing as they were a decade ago but also still bear the same markers he left. The south corner of the first junction is missing a brick three quarters of the way up so he takes a left and goes on.

Finally, after half a dozen more turns and a close encounter with something that was either a rat or a vagrant, John arrives at his destination.

He fondly called it the Shit Fall ten years ago and he doesn’t see why that name won’t serve now.

The Shit Fall, as the name implies, is a rapid drop in the sewer system that creates a disgusting water fall into the deeper parts of the sewer. The ledge John is currently standing on stops abruptly at this point, leaving a fair deep hole filled with stagnant, disgusting water, next to the fall.

Luckily for John, the water level hasn’t risen and has left the particular stone he wants uncovered.

He tries to pry the stone loose with his fingers but years of dirt has acted like an adhesive. It won’t budge at all, no matter the strength he puts into it.

Frustrated, he pulls his weapon and shoots the damn thing. The Shit Fall will mask most of the noise. He hopes.

The stone crumbles from the impact, a deep hole seared along its front. This time when he pushes at its edge, the stone shifts forward and then drops into the stagnant pool of water.

Behind the stone is a large, hollowed out space made by a 24-year-old John right before he enlisted. From this space, John pulls out a metal box approximately eight inches wide and 16 inches long.

John sets the box quickly on the ledge behind him and fishes the key out of his pocket. Luckily, the thing had remained dry after all this time so he doesn’t have to fight more than a bit of rust to get it open. He lifts the lid.

A wide smile splits his face nearly in two. His little nest egg, still safe and sound after all this time.

Inside the box is about a quarter million pounds in non-sequential bills. There’s also a handgun, a box of bullets, a bottle of scent-blocking pills and two bars of what looks like soaped carefully wrapped in Alpha-proof packaging. One of these bars is marked with a “B” and the other is marked with “O2.”

John removes a few bills, stuffing them into his pocket. He’s still got enough scent on his body to last another few hours but it’s nice to have some extra just in case. He closes the box, locking it securely and stows it under his arm.

Next stop: a used clothing store.

John manages to get out of the sewer without being seen by the CCTV though a young woman passing by starts as he hoists himself out. He nods to her respectfully and replaces the manhole cover.

“Safety inspection,” he tells her cheerfully. “The smell, you know?”

The hand she’d placed on her chest defensively lowers. She blinks pretty brown eyes at him. “Oh, yes, it has been really bad lately. Is everything okay?”

People will believe anything if you force them to contribute to the story.

“Slight backup,” John says. He shakes his head. “I have to call it in and get someone out here to fix it.”

The young woman’s eyes shift awkwardly away and she begins to walk in her original direction without another word.

John smiles a little at the easy dismissal. She won’t remember him.

He pops into Tesco’s and buys a bottle of water. At the front, they’re selling reusable shopping bag which he also purchases. He places his box into the bag, effectively hiding it from view.

That accomplished, he walks leisurely down the strip. He doesn’t know if the thrift store he remembers will still be there but he’s got time. Now that he has his backup scents and a bit of cash, he can afford to wander around London and get reacquainted.

Several hours later, John is back in his bedsit with a new array of jumpers that will cover his two firearms and several other necessities. He also has managed to gather almost all of the ingredients needed to make his cover scent.

But to make his cover scent, he’ll need a place with alpha-proofing and no witnesses. That, he decides, putting his purchases away, is a task for tomorrow.

For now, his bed is calling him.

\--------------------

John Watson’s ID labels him a Beta, Rank 3 on the dominance scale, and an organ donor. His medical records from the time he was a child record a history of broken bones, subdural hematomas and two concussions.

They do not even once remark on the particular puberty and associated problems of an adolescent omega.

The truth is John got lucky. Strange to think of it that way considering the abuse Harry and his alcoholic father heaped on them but true nonetheless. He got lucky because this abuse masked his omega puberty perfectly.

Omega’s are not weak, despite popular belief. They’re wily and tenacious and can take quite a lot of damage before going down. Like alphas, they are fiercely protective of those they call theirs and can undergo extreme duress in order to keep them safe. The intense psychological strain of protecting, however, often causes other aspects of their anatomy to shut down in order to compensate for the effort it requires to do what Omega physiology is not quite supposed to sustain.

In other words, John didn’t get his first heat when he was sixteen. He was too busy matching his father blow for blow at home and beating up older students at school who picked on Harry. His body de-prioritized baby making and left his mating glands undeveloped long past the age they should have gone haywire.

Then, of course, Harry had to mess up that particular stasis by coming into her alpha genes a full three years late. She had to go away to a special institution that eased her into the heightened senses, the increased strength.

John, at home with a distant mother and a nearly incoherent father, had to think of a solution. And fast.

So he ran away from home for the summer. 

He had his first heat in the middle of the countryside, as far away from people as he could manage. Luckily, not being mated, the event didn’t render him incoherent but rather horny and not a bit irritated. He endured it the best he could, resolving to never let a second heat happen. Since he needed to be in close proximity to an alpha he was compatible with, he imagined that wouldn’t be difficult.

Once his heat passed, John was left with only one more problem: his scent. He could avoid going into heat by avoiding compatible alphas but his scent would mark him as an omega long before it ever got to that point.

John had always been good at science in school but he’d never had to deal with a problem like this one. Where would he even start? 

He went back home long enough to nick some of his dad’s alcohol money and went to the nearest lady’s shop. He pretended to be buying a “present” for his alpha lover and blushed while the salesgirl boxed the perfume for him.

Then John returned to his countryside hideout and examined the perfume. It was the only one of its kind on the market currently, designed to enhance an omega’s scent so as to more fully entice an alpha.

John figured that, with some luck, he could reverse engineer the scent so that instead of enhancing, it would erase the scent altogether.

Since his school was empty for the summer, John even had a lab to conduct his experiments.

By the time summer was over, John had nearly been caught by the police three times, he’d managed to erase his scent, and Harry was coming home.

Harry stared at him for an hour after her arrival, brow furrowed.

John, worried that he’d failed after all.

“You don’t smell at all,” Harry said finally. She looked irritated. “What’s wrong with you?”

John felt his heart in his throat. “You were a late bloomer. Maybe I am too.”

In his excitement to erase his scent he’d forgotten that it was unnatural to smell of nothing.

In his final year of high school, John put his head down and worked hard. He developed his olfactory senses, he searched for ingredients. He learned about pheromones across species and how to amplify and diminish a scent. He learned how to make a person smell natural of unnatural, he learned how to tweak the smallest factor to mislead and seduce.

By the time he was 18, had had graduated and smelled like a somewhat submissive beta.

Later that year, he began to market his wares. Since it was against the law to hide your status as an Omega/Beta/Alpha, it was done illegally.

John did it anyway and got into a few other markets figuring it was in for a penny, in for a pound.

By the time he was 19, he had a veritable empire.

When he was 24, he left it all behind.

\-------------------------------------------

John wakes up at 35 from a nightmare. He sits up in bed, gasping, and tries to calm his racing heart. Murrey’s been dead for months now and his gunshot wound is nearly healed. He’d taken care of his limp through his skills in aromatherapy. Everyone else was either safe or dead.

He drops his head into his hands and strives to stop the tears. He can’t cry. Omega tears carried an incredible amount of pheromones and his scent blocker was worn thin from a night of tossing and turning.

He fumbles the bottle of pills he’d retrieved yesterday from under his mattress. These stop external pheromone production for nearly 24 hours. He swallows two dry and goes to shower.

In the shower, he unwraps the scented bar labeled “B.” The scent of beta hits his nose, hard, and he sneezes. It’s been awhile since he’s had to use so much of it but London isn’t like Afghanistan. In Afghanistan, the smell of blood, tears, and desert had meant that very few people could distinguish the smell between soldier and environment. Here, there were plenty of alphas that would be able to tell the difference between a Beta ranked 3 in dominance and one at rank 5.

He rubs the bar under his arms, the sides of his neck, around his groin. Anyplace that would normally smell stronger on a person. That done, he carefully replaced the bar in the alpha-proof wrap and continued to get ready for the day.

John arrives at his army-assigned therapist ten minutes early. He waits in the waiting room and is very conscious of the way the omega receptionist scents him on his way in. The woman goes back to typing after a moment and John sighs. He shouldn’t get so tense about these things.  His product has been reliable for so long he doubts anyone could discern it.

“John?” Dr. Thompson-but-call-me-Ella says. “I’m ready for you if you’d like to come in.”

John follows her into her office. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to tell her. That he’s thinking of getting back into his life of crime? That he’s not in the substantial financial bind that he’d been in the first time they met?

He sits in silence and stares at her.

She, to her credit, doesn’t seem particularly disturbed by this. Instead, after about ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, she asks “How is your blog doing?”

John starts. He had honestly forgotten about the assignment she had given him a month ago. He’d been too focused on his dwindling scent-blockers and shrinking scent bar, not to mention the financial crisis that is living in London.

He clears his throat. “Good. It’s going good.”

She calls him on it and, from there, the session goes rather downhill.

“You were a soldier,” she says. “It’s going to take some time adjusting to civilian life.”

_ I’m not planning on adjusting to civilian life _ , he thinks. Is it appropriate to tell your therapist that you’re planning on returning to a life of crime?

He stays silent.

Tedious, mandatory therapy session done, John goes to get a cup of coffee at a local internet cafe. He pays to rent a computer with his recovered cash and also buys a cup of coffee.

The delightful thing about internet cafes is that all the computers are only setup to hold a certain amount of data before dumping the unnecessary bits. It means that, after a day or so, any search John types in will disappear.

He sips his coffee and looks up Omega law. Not much has changed since he left for the army.

The way an Omega-Alpha courtship works is this: the Omega feels the initial “click.” This “click” is the Omega recognizing a compatible Alpha. Not all Alpha’s are compatible and many omegas go years without finding even a partially suitable alpha. But, assuming there is a click, the omega informs the alpha who then decides whether or not to make the next move.

It is illegal to interfere with the “click.” As such, it is illegal for any alpha, beta, or omega to modify their scents in any way. It’s thought that, with this ability, unfit alphas will coerce susceptible omegas into choosing them. Or, worse, betas will go about masquerading as alphas.

_ Yep,  _ John thinks grimly _ , still illegal _ .

John knows that even his best fake scent can’t inspire a “click.” While even the most discerning nose often can’t tell between one of his artificial scents or a natural one, there’s something even his scents can’t fool. Instinct.

Instinctually, an omega won’t “click” with someone putting on a sham.

Yet, the law is the law. What John has created, the market he used to control, is still illegal and he must have caution.

He finishes his coffee and closes his tab at the front. He shoves his hands in his pockets and decides to take a walk to think.

It won’t be easy to get back in. He’d disappeared with his recipes and, according to a few of his sources, the underground economy had nearly collapsed when he pulled out. There are plenty knock offs drifting around now and those are tightly regulated by various foreign groups.

To get back in, to get his supply up, John will need a lot of money. A lot more than a quarter mil.

Staying in London isn’t a good idea, financially speaking. The place is devilishly expensive and John knows he’ll eat through a good portion of his cash just to get set up comfortably. His army pension sure won’t cover even a portion of it.

But he has to stay in London. It’s the central crime hub in England. Every major player comes through her eventually and he needs his ear to the ground if he wants to learn the new ins and outs of the system.

Which means he needs to stay here affordably while also attempting to make just enough product to sell under the major players’ radar but make enough money to get back in.

His head hurts just thinking about it.

“--ohn Watson!”

John turns, startled. He hadn’t expected anyone to know him in London and yet someone is calling his name.

Mike Stamford beams at him, positively delighted.

\----------------------------------------------------

John finds himself trailing Mike through the halls of good old Bart’s not an hour later. He hadn’t considered a flat share at all. It could save him a pretty penny if it worked out.

But, as he’d told Mike, who’d want him for a flatmate?

He follows Mike into one of the lab rooms. He sees a dark, curly head bent over a microscope. The man looks up, grey eyes steely as they brush over the stunned omega.

_ Click _ .

_ Oh no,  _ thinks John.  _ Oh no, no, no _ .

_ Act natural _ .

“Bit different than it was in my day,” he says, looking around the room to avoid staring at the alpha. The man looks younger than John, sharp cheekbones and practically oozing dominance. Something inside of John desperately wants  _ him _ . Not any other. Not the chubby beta at his side. Not any man in the world.  _ Him. _

John tunes out the conversation as he battles himself. He’s not an omega; he’s a beta soldier. Just because this was the first compatible alpha he’s ever seen does not mean he has to give up everything. He just has to stay away from this alpha and everything would be  _ fine _ .

“I left mine in my coat,” Mike is saying when John tunes back in. They’re talking about phones, cell phones. John has a phone.

“Here, use mine,” John says, fishing the device out of his pocket. He breathes very evenly and calmly, rooted to the spot, as the alpha’s eyes slide once again to him.

“Oh, thank you,” the alpha says. He walks over, takes the phone, and slides it open.

_ Oh my god what have I done _ , John thinks, panicking internally. He makes sure none of it shows on his face as he melts down. He’d just displayed interest in an alpha. He’d just given his phone to serve an alpha whom he clicked with.

What was wrong with him?

The only saving grace is that he’s currently a beta. It’s simply one man helping another if he’s a beta. It isn’t a display of interest like John’s are screaming for it to be.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the alpha asks without looking at him.

John’s mind goes completely and totally blank. Out of his peripherals, he can see Mike smiling some sort of knowing smile.

John shakes his head, blinks, and, as if through a fog asks “Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” the alpha repeats. His voice is smooth and deep.

John’s brain begins to boot up again, past his omega instincts. He looks to Stamford who still has that knowing look on his face and then back to the alpha.  “Afghanistan, sorry, how did you know…?”

But the alpha doesn’t even listen to the rest of his question. The omega in John shrinks at the perceived dismissal but John shakes that part off. He’s a beta right now and beta’s are designed to be dismissed.

The alpha, instead, focuses on the small, omega woman that enters the room. “Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.” The alpha accepts the cup from the woman and seems to notice something odd. “What happened to the lipstick?”

John takes a deep breath and tells his omega side to deal with it. The alpha had just accepted an offering from a different omega and then expressed interest in her by asking a question. It meant that the other omega had clicked with him and, possibly, he was now pursuing a relationship with her.

Past the disappointment, John is relieved. It gives him just a touch more space to shove his instincts down.

“Okay,” says Molly the omega. John’s not sure what he missed but she exits the room with an air of dejection. Fuck, there go his instincts again.

Still, he was a soldier. He can operate above them. He can.

“How do you feel about the violin?” the alpha asks, going back to examine his microscope.

John really can’t keep up with this one. “Sorry, what?” he says again, dumbly.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t speak for days on end,” the alpha says. “I’m ranked ten in dominance, alpha class, obviously, and need to have an alpha-safe environment which means no candles, no smoking, no food not on my approved list. Potential flatmates ought to know the worst of each other.” He turns and smiles somewhat condescendingly at John.

John blinks. How could he have known about the flatmate thing? He’d just met Stamford this morning and there’d been no time for the other man to inform the alpha of John’s search. Meaning that this man either has informants or he was dangerously intelligent.

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John asks. He wants to see how the alpha will answer.

“I did,” the alpha says. He goes to shrug on his coat, explaining how he’d deduced it.

_ He’s smart _ , John’s omega instincts whisper to him as the alpha prattles on.  _ Handsome, strong. A good mate _ .

_ Shut it _ , John thinks to his instincts. It’s a losing battle for the longer the man talks, the more John himself becomes entranced by the man’s intellect.

“Is that it?” John can’t help but ask as the man makes for the door. John can’t believe he’d offer to look at flats with him after such a short meeting in which, John was sure, the omega had sounded like a grade A idiot.

“Is that what?” the alpha asks. There’s a hint of tension in his voice and he comes away from the door to face John directly. Too late John realizes that the question would have sounded like a challenge to the more dominant man.

John lowers his eyes in deference but not too much. He is a beta. “We only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

The alpha takes the submissive gesture and relaxes a touch. “Problem?”

At the table, Stamford smiles like he’s watching a particularly good show.

John lets himself get irritated by that smile. “You don’t know anything about me, I don’t know where we’re meeting, and I don’t even know your name.”  _ I also want you to fuck me and I’m not entirely sure what to do with that _ .

The alpha’s spine straightens. “I know you’re an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he’s an alpha who just walked out on his mate. I know that your therapist thinks you’re not adjusting adequately to coming home, most likely due to the fact that dominance is more important here than rank which you’ve become unaccustomed to while abroad. As a low level beta it’s difficult to play the dominance games that are so integral in daily life in London. That’s enough to be going off of, don’t you think?”

John is, in a word, stunned. How could this man know all of that? How could he come so close to the truth with John not having said a word?

The alpha reaches for the door again and pauses. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winks condescendingly. “Afternoon.”

With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock Holmes is gone.

Oh, John Watson is so completely fucked.

In disbelief, John looks at Stamford whose knowing look still lingers.

“Yeah,” Stamford says. “He’s always like that.”


	2. A Bad Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I'm sure I have notes but my mind is totally blanking, I have not slept in many hours!

John looks around his bedsit. It’s not alpha-proof, so there’s the possibility of someone breaking in at any moment, and it’s very, very small. He wants to move, that’s for sure, and getting a flatmate is definitely the best option.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with how intriguing he finds Sherlock Holmes. Or their compatibility.

John’s never made any plans to settle down. When he was a kid, it had seemed almost like a fairytale. Have a day go by without being smacked around? Without having to fight? Preposterous. When he’d hit Omega puberty, he still hadn’t planned on it. He’d been testing his scent blockers and bars and didn’t want the presence of an alpha to weigh him down. After that, he’d enlisted like the bull-headed young lad he was. No room for tomorrows in the army.

Besides, what if he found one of those ghastly, restrictive alphas? Or one who wanted kids? He couldn’t have a kid in the underworld. He didn’t even  _ want  _ a kid.

With a sigh, John shoves more of his personal belongings back into his duffel. Whether or not he moves in with Sherlock will depend on what he finds out tonight and tomorrow, provided he gets that far. Either way, he won’t be staying here much longer.

There are only a few things left on the bed. His handguns, ammunition for each, a bottle with six days worth of scent blockers, the scent bar marked “O2”, his wallet, and his keys. 

Where he’s going, there’s a good chance of getting searched so, regretfully, he loads his Glock and stows the Browning into his bag. Better to lose one gun than both.

He secrets the scent kit away on his person, carelessly shoving his wallet and keys on top of the O2 bar in his pocket. He throws his duffel under the bed, checks that it won’t be immediately visible from the door, and heads out.

He’ll pick it up later after he figures out whether he’s getting a flat on his own or with Sherlock.

He’ll leave that decision until tomorrow.

John steps out of the shabby, grey building and inhales the London air. It’s nearly time for tea, which serves as adequate cover for his excursion. He wanders down into the heart of London and enters the cheapest-looking bar he can find. There, he orders a burger and a pint, and finds a table in the corner where he sits to wait.

From his spot, all the way in the back, he can see a surveillance camera. He frowns into his chips. Was there anyplace without a camera these days? What had changed since he left that had London looking like a bloody stage for a television show?

He chews his burger thoughtfully. The cameras are annoying, yes, and a little frightening, but they could be worked around. The only way for them to be useful was for someone to be watching the footage. He’d find out who was watching, figure out  _ when _ they were watching and, until then, he’d be very, very discrete.

Not such a challenge, he supposes, if he finds a reason to get out of the heart of the city every so often. Once his routes are functioning again, he’ll find a cover for the trips.

He finishes his meal and pays. This time his destination is quite a bit further, so he hails a cab, not worried about the expense. If this visit goes well, he won’t have to worry about any expense for a while to come.

He’s dropped off in front of a nice apartment building. It’s a pleasant shade of blue and isn’t so high class as to have a door attendant, but isn’t in such a dangerous area that there’s a security gate. He lets himself in, nodding in greeting to an older woman on her way out with a gentleman friend.

He rides the elevator up, humming to himself, and disembarks on the fifth floor. He finds apartment 507 and knocks twice, pauses, and knocks three times.

The door opens a minute later on an omega woman in her early thirties with dark bags under her eyes. She’s wearing a smart blue blouse and a pair of jeans that look as worn as she is. When she registers who it is, she shifts the gun she’d hidden behind the door down to her side, and trains it on him..

“Hello, Clara,” John says warmly. “May I come in?”

Clara, keeping her gun tucked close to her so as to avoid anyone seeing it (or John from grabbing it), doesn’t seem fond of that question. “Harry told me you were back in town.”

John is surprised. “You and Harry are speaking again?”

Clara’s lips thin. “No, I suppose not. She leaves a drunken voicemail every few weeks or so.”

John’s here on business but he’s always considered Clara more than his minion. He looks at her with open concern. “What’s she done now?”

Clara looks torn for a moment and then sighs, tucking the weapon into the back of her pants. “You might as well come in, John.” She moves aside to let him in.

Her new flat is a decided downgrade. Clara works as a web developer so what should be an eating area is, instead, an office. There are four monitors on the desk and a large stack of papers has spilled from the table and onto the floor. Her kitchen  and living room sit along the walls of the small room, and there’s one door behind a worn couch that must lead to the single bedroom.

“I let her keep the apartment,” Clara says, seeing the direction of John’s gaze. “I don’t think she could have moved out on her own. Doesn’t have the presence of mind.”

Harry’s job isn’t nearly as well paying as Clara’s, even without John’s business. The location and smallness of the flat indicates that Clara is still supporting her soon-to-be-former alpha financially.

John feels abruptly guilty. Harry, for all her faults, is his sister and Clara is still his sister-in-law. He should be helping with these things, making sure they’re set.

“I’m sorry,” he says impulsively. “I should have--”

Clara holds up a hand. “Don’t. You did what you could. I’m a grown up, John, though I know you lot don’t think of me as one.”

By ‘you lot’ she means betas and alphas. Despite their previous closeness, John had never told her about his omega status.

Clara rubs a hand over her face, focusing a bit too much under the eyes and the wetness clinging there. “Now, as nice as this is, why don’t you tell me what you’re about? I’ve already a mess to deal with, and it’s not like we’ve kept in touch.”

“I thought it would be safer,” John tries to explain. “I knew people would be looking for me when I disappeared. I didn’t want to put you in the line of fire, especially when you were about to--” He breaks off, realizing too late that it’s a sensitive subject.

Clara smiles without humor and sinks down onto the couch. “When I was about to bond with Harry. Have a child.” Her hands clench, and her smile is mean. “Yeah, well, we see how well that worked out.”

Clara had been working for John when she met Harry. He’d seen his sister sober up, become a person he could stand. He’d thought he was leaving them to a happy life when he pursued a military career. Seeing Clara beaten down like this hurts something inside of him.

He sits down next to her, leg aching, and puts his hand over hers. When she meets his eyes, he says “It wasn’t your fault.”

Clara rubs at her eyes again, this time in irritation. “I know that. After all these years, don’t you think I know?” She stands abruptly, squaring her shoulders and forcing her breath out through her nose. “Would you like some tea?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” John tells her again. “I’m sorry Harry couldn’t be what you needed.” He watches her bustle around her tiny kitchen. “I can get Harry to leave you alone if you want.” His sister would hate him, but he and Clara have something of a history between them, and John’s never been one to give up on his friends. 

“She wants me back,” Clara says, back still turned to him. John ignores the sharp, bitter scent of the pheromones she’s kicking out. “It’s absolutely mad but that’s the only reason I can stay away. She wants me back and she still--  We’re not right. We don’t push the right buttons, flip the right switches. I don’t--” She clears her throat, shoulder hunching up a bit. “I’m not a good omega for her.”

“You’re the perfect omega for her,” John says.

Clara gives a choked laugh, looks back at him over her shoulder. “Yes, well. You always were set on making me feel better.” She takes two mugs from the cupboard and shuts the kettle off just as the whistle starts to rise. 

“I did everything I could. I went to therapy with her, I tried to help her through withdrawal--” she cuts herself off to take a deep breath. When she turns, there’s no sign of tears, and the bitter pheromones of long, old hurt starts to dissipate. “Well, if she really wants me, she knows what she has to do. Until then, all I can do is keep busy.”

John accepts the cup of tea she hands him. “I might be able to help with that, at least.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scent bar. He lays it on the table with a solid thump and sits back, waiting.

Clara stares at the bar, then looks at John quickly before she refocuses on the alpha-proof packaging. “You can’t be serious.”

John begins to think this is a bad idea. “Of course, if you don’t want to--” He starts to reach for the bar, embarrassed.

Clara catches his wrist, her eyes never leaving the O2. “All our lines are dead. I don’t even know if I could find our contacts again.”

John eases his wrist out of her grip and sits back. That didn’t sound like an argument, even if the odds were against it. “Does that mean you’re in?”

“Harry would hate it.” Clara sips her tea, still staring at the bar. “She would absolutely hate it.”

“She’s never really known,” John points out. “Maybe the who but not the what, so to speak. She doesn’t have to know now.”

“I make a good living,” Clara says. She taps one nail against her mug. “Web developing is in high demand these days. I have a lot of clients.”

“That’s why I’m asking, not ordering,” John says. He realizes what that sounds like and backtracks. “I mean, not that I could order you--”

“Harry would hate it,” Clara repeats. She seems to come to a decision and nods. “I’m in.”

“--just that, as your former employer, I--” John blinks, once, twice. “You’re in?”

She finally looks at him fully, mouth set. “My job is boring, my clients are boorish, and my ex would hate it. I’m in.”

“You don’t want to take a day to think about it?” John checks. “We are talking about criminal activity. That merits some thought.”

“Don’t care,” Clara says firmly. “I think I can contact our ambassador friend at the very least. He’ll be open to reestablishing that route. Do you have product?”

John wants to object, but this is what he’s come for after all. Clara is a grown woman; she can make her own decisions. “Just that right now. Figured it would be enough to get us in the door and give me some time to make more.”

Clara finally picks up the bar, weighing it in her hand. “It will. I’ll make sure of it.” She sets it back on the table. “And the scent blockers?”

He fishes the bottle out of his pocket and gives it to her. “We’ll have to find some runners, too. I don’t want you out in the field so soon into the operation.”

Runners were personnel on the ground, hired to make product drops with their clients and deliver payment to John and Clara. They had a designated stash of product that kept them scentless and anonymous, and they took their share of the profit directly from what the client provided. The rest was dead-dropped innocuously to John or Clara, in a number of low-risk locations across the city.

God, two minutes into this and he’s already talking like he used too. 

She flaps a hand at him, shaking the bottle with the other. “Six days? It’ll have to be enough. How long until you’ll have more?”

“Two weeks,” John says, hoping that’s true. “I have to find a secure place to do it. On that note, what do you know about a fellow by the name of Holmes?”

“Which one?” Clara asks immediately. Then, understanding what he’s just said, her head whips around. “And what do you mean by ‘on that note’? John, what have you done?”

John, having not expected her to actually recognize the name, blinks. “Nothing yet. There’s more than one of them?” He tries to imagine two insanely intense, insanely intelligent alphas in the same room. He wonders idly if they’d both have the curls, or the ridiculously dextrous fingers, then shakes himself. “My god.”

“You’ve met one,” Clara says in disbelief. “Of course you have. Barely a week back in London and John Watson’s already met one of the most dangerous men in the country. Of course he has.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to,” John says with a frown. “He’s a potential flatmate is all.”

Clara stares at him. “You want to  _ live  _ with one? Are you  _ insane _ ? Which one?”

“Sherlock, if he’s to be believed,” John says. His brow furrows. “They weren’t around before I deployed, otherwise I’d have heard of them.”

Clara laughs somewhat hysterically. “Well, boss, let’s just say that a lot’s happened since then.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

John stretches out on Clara’s couch that night, staring at the darkened ceiling.

He’s really gone and gotten himself into a predicament this time, hasn’t he?

According to Clara, Sherlock Holmes is a formidable man. A private detective, associated with the police, one of four rank 10 Alphas in the country, and brother to a terrifying, low level government employee whom Clara has very little information on, the largest portion of which is his name. Mycroft. According to her, even that little bit of information is very, very dangerous to have.

In short, she’s assured John, he would have to be insane to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

He frowns at the ceiling. Police  _ and  _ government involvement should have put him off Sherlock’s scent completely, and yet he can’t stop thinking about the alpha. The way he’d deduced John had been both wickedly bright and overbearingly confident; two traits John admires. What Clara told him only confirmed that.

Not to mention the alpha’s blinding good looks. Those sharp, grey eyes, dark, curly hair, his height, the wonderful muscle tone he’d seen under the man’s ridiculously tailored shirt--

John firmly directs his mind away from  _ that.  _ The apartment is  _ far  _ too small.

In the end, it’s down to John’s insufferable curiosity. He wants to know more about Sherlock. He wants to spend time observing the alpha, up close, from afar, in conversation.  _ In bed,  _ he thinks, then quashes it.

It’s been a long time John has been so attracted to anything. And, of course, there is the matter of the  _ click _ .

John’s not so foolish as to think no omega has ever clicked with Sherlock. There’s no one  _ true  _ match when it comes to biology and a 10 rank is enough to ensure that Sherlock’s compatible with more than his fair share of omegas.

John’s probably horribly average in the sense that he’s clicked with the other man. Sherlock would most likely find it banal. But this is John’s first click. He’s never had even partial compatibility and he thinks it’s fair that he finds the entire matter rather extraordinary, to say the least.

Since he’s been in the army for ten years, bumping shoulders and a myriad of other bits with a veritable meat market of alphas, this was something to be noted.

For a while, he’d assumed that it was due to his use of scent blockers. That somehow, in some way he couldn’t find, the scent blockers cut off the necessary receptors for a  _ click _ . It hadn’t bothered him since he’d been doing quite enough to occupy himself without an alpha around complicating matters.

Not to mention it would be a bit difficult to explain to the alpha in question why a supposed  _ beta  _ had started to make overtures.

John turns over irritably, yanking the thin blanket Clara had given him more securely around his shoulders. Was that what he wanted? To make overtures? He’d spent the majority of his life fighting the limitations of his dynamic. 

Well he damn well wasn’t going to let it muck about and dictate  his choices  _ now.  _ If he was going to do this, it needed to be for better reasons than his body telling him it was the right decision.

_ I’ll try it,  _ John thinks to himself, giving up.  _ For a while. If it looks too risky, I’ll pack my things and go. _

Tentative plan made, John does his level best to go to sleep.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

John wakes up in a decidedly better mood. He tells Clara his decision over a cup of tea.

She stares at him. “What I’m hearing is that you’ve decided to do whatever you want, regardless of the consequences.”

John thinks about it. “I suppose that’s the right of it.”

Clara pinches the bridge of her nose. “Ignoring the  _ detective  _ part for now, you realize he’s 10 rank, right? If he doesn’t pick up his socks or do his dishes, you won’t be able to tell him off.”

John shrugs. “If it gets too bad, I’ll just leave.”

“Just leave,” Clara repeats flatly. “And what if he suspects you? You can’t just leave when arguably the most brilliant man in Britain has an interest in you. Not to mention his brother--”

“I doubt I’ll ever meet his brother, and I dealt with worse than socks and dishes in the army, Clara,” John says dismissively. He polishes off his cuppa and stands to pour himself another. “If Sherlock looks like he’s getting suspicious, I’ll disappear.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” Clara says. She sighs. “I can tell you’ve made up your mind, though.”

It’s not a question but John says “yes” anyway.

Clara scowls at him. “You Watsons are going to turn me grey.”

“Either that or kill you young,” John says cheerfully. He breathes in the steam from his mug serenely. “That’s how Da went.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

John stands outside 221B later that day. It’s a bit harder to comprehend what he’s doing when he’s in front of the actual door. Or rather, he’s comprehending it, but the cold, pricking feeling of a bad decision is creeping up on him.

An alpha detective? Whose brother works in the government? Who he’s clicked with? A bit not good.

He stands in front of 221B like an idiot, trying to get up the courage to knock. He’s been in war zones for the past decade. He can do this.

He raises his hand toward the crooked knocker and is interrupted by a smooth baritone behind him.

“Hello,” Sherlock Holmes says. Behind him, the cab he’d arrived in lumbers away. He holds out his hand to John. “Glad you could make it.”

John, dumbly, accepts the handshake. He’d had the horrifying fantasy of Sherlock leading him up the stairs by it, palms pressing together. Intimate.  _ Wholly inappropriate for a second meeting _ , he reminds himself. Sherlock is wearing gloves which is the only thing that sobers him. 

It’s a very rare thing, but some alpha’s can sense a  _ click  _ through skin contact, especially in the case of recent connections. John has a feeling that if any alpha could, it would be Sherlock.

John is an idiot and he needs to be more on top of things.

He does his best to hide the nerves from the close call with a smile. “Seems like a prime spot. I’m not sure we can afford it even if we do go in together.”

Sherlock hums, stepping around John to bang the knocker against the door. “The landlady owes me a favor. Her alpha was on death row when we met. I helped her out.”

John is intrigued. “You stopped his execution?”

The smile Sherlock turns on him is predatory, an alpha reminiscing in the pleasure of a good hunt. “Oh, I ensured it.”

John shivers, unsure how to reply. He’s saved by the door opening.

Mrs. Hudson is a pleasant-faced, older omega who smells of black tea and herbs. She greets Sherlock fondly and initiates contact, showing John that, despite Sherlock’s cold demeanor, he holds an equal regard to her. An alpha would never allow an omega to initiate such familiar contact if that wasn’t the case.

She leads them to the flat at the top of the stairs, ushering them in ahead of her.

It’s alpha-proof. That’s the first thing John notices. Reinforced, double-paned windows designed to dampen, although not completely cut off, external sounds. The door is solid wood, thicker than normal, and  has the rubber trim that acts as both noise and scent lock when closed. The floors are a mixture of hardwood and linoleum, the walls papered with water-proof prints. There’s a small drain in the center of the room, partially obscured by a cardboard box. The entire room can be hosed down if a foreign contaminant enters it and the alpha needs to wipe the slate clean.

The second thing he notices is the pervasive smell of  _ Sherlock  _ clinging to the piles of clutter already littering the space.

The third thing he notices is the  _ skull  _ on the mantle, missing its lower mandible.

“The second bedroom is alpha-proofed from the rest of the house. You can keep your sleeping areas very separate that way,” Mrs. Hudson says. “That is, if you’ll be needing the separate sleeping areas.”

John’s head snaps around to her. “Of course we’ll be needing separate sleeping areas.” He looks to Sherlock for backup. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, still peering around the space. He turns back to Mrs. Hudson. “Why wouldn’t we?”

What did she  _ know _ ?

Mrs. Hudson flaps a hand at him. “We get all sorts around here.” She leans in. “Mrs. Turner next door has got  _ married  _ ones.” She nods as if that decides it.

John abruptly realizes what she’s talking about. She hasn’t miraculously sensed that he’s an omega; she’s referring to an alpha/beta  _ couple _ . The pairing had been frowned upon for years but was making headway these days. John was happy for them but he did  _ not  _ need someone assuming he and Sherlock were a couple.

It made his omega side  _ far  _ too happy _. _

Mrs. Hudson catches sight of the kitchen which is in a far worse state than the living. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made…” Driven by her instincts to keep the food area tidy, she leaves to pick up a bit in the kitchen.

Alone, Sherlock and John look at each other.

John clears his throat. “Right, well, I think this will do very nicely.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “I agree--”

“Of course we’ll still need to talk a bit before moving in--”

“--which is why I’ve moved in already,” Sherlock finishes. He blinks at John. “Talk?” An expression of irritation passes over his face. “Why?”

“You’re an alpha,” John says slowly. When Sherlock stares at him impatiently, he elaborates. “I need to know what exactly I should avoid to leave your instincts alone. Since this is already clearly your territory.” He nods to the general mess pointedly.

Something in Sherlock’s face eases. “Military. Yes, I suppose you’re accustomed to a more...temperamental set, more prone to violent outbursts when infringed upon.”

“That and you’re 10 rank,” John says bluntly. “I’d rather get it all out of the way now than be a cowering mess later.”

“I doubt you’re one to cower. And despite my rank, that’s clearly not your primary concern about moving in with me,” Sherlock says. He continues before John can respond. “I don’t have a set territory.”

John nods slowly. He’s never heard of an alpha without a set territory but, then again, he’s never met an alpha like Sherlock. It could very well be he didn’t feel the need for one, as preposterous as that sounded. “Alright. We still need to have that talk before I move in.”

By the expression on Sherlock’s face, that wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “You--”

“Sherlock, did you see this?” Mrs. Hudson asks, bustling out of the kitchen. She’s got today’s paper in her hands. “Three suicides and all of them alphas! Never heard of such a thing--”

“Four,” Sherlock says, striding to the window. He looks out, clearly listening to something. He seems very predatory in that moment. “There’s been a fourth and something’s different.”

John is confused. Suicides? Alphas? It must be related to Sherlock’s occupation. But how can suicides be the business of a detective, much less one of Sherlock’s caliber?

Footsteps pound up the stairs and, not a moment later, a grey-haired beta bursts into the room. He’s young, despite the color of his hair, and his eyes catalogue each of them before settling on Sherlock. In deference to Sherlock’s rank and dynamic, the beta doesn’t say anything, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge him.

Or, John muses as he watches the man pant, he’s just out of breath.

“Where?” Sherlock asks. He seems almost disinterested, a complete turn-around from the excitement he’d shown just a minute ago.

“Brixton,” the man says. He looks directly into Sherlock’s eyes, suggesting a familiarity much the same as Mrs. Hudson. “Lauristan Gardens. Will you come?”

_ To what _ , John wonders. He glances at the newspaper in Mrs. Hudson’s hands. Surely not to see a suicide?

“What’s different about this one?” Sherlock asks.

The man seems exasperated. “We need to--”

“What’s different about this one?” Sherlock asks again, harder. There’s a hint of an edge in his voice that tells John he does not like asking twice.

The man looks resigned. “You know how they never leave a note? Well, this one did. Now, will you come?”

Sherlock ignores the question, still not looking directly at the detective. “Who’s on forensics?”

John sees the beta close his eyes.

“Anderson.”

Sherlock’s lip curls. “He won’t work with me.”

“I’ll keep him from an initiating a pissing match,” the man says. “You don’t have to work with him.”

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock says. He looks contemptuous. “I can handle a pissing match.”

John just bet he could. By the sound of it, Anderson was a rival alpha working underneath the man in front of them. The man whom, John was beginning to suspect, belonged to the police.

The policeman visibly gives up, shoulder dropping submissively. “Will you come?”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll find my own transportation.” He turns abruptly back to the window, dismissing the beta silently.

The beta, for his part, looks very used to this and leaves without acknowledging John or Mrs. Hudson.

When the last of the footsteps fade, Sherlock’s cold demeanor breaks. A grin spreads across his face and he turns, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “A note! Four serial suicides and now a note! Ah, it’s Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be back late, might need food.”

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says calmly.

“Something cold will do.” Sherlock rounds on John. “John, make yourself at home, we will have our talk at a later date. Excuse me.” He yanks on his coat and goes darting out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

John rather feels like he’s been in a hurricane.

“Alphas,” Mrs. Hudson says, shaking her head. “Especially that one, always dashing about. You’re more the sitting down type, I can tell.”

“That,” John says, not sure whether to be amused or offended, “is very far from the truth, Mrs. Hudson.”

She tuts. “If you say so, dear. How about some tea and biscuits?”

John doesn’t want tea and biscuits. Sherlock’s alpha pheromones are still hanging in the air and he feels energized. He wants to get up and dash after Sherlock and see what the alpha is doing. He wants to do  _ something _ .

He picks up the paper and sees the article Mrs. Hudson had been reading. There’s a picture of the man who’d just come in and, under it, the name  _ D.I. Lestrade _ . Not just police, a detective inspector.

The door opens and, very slowly, Sherlock reenters the room. His eyes fix on John and he scans the omega from top to bottom.

John works hard to hide a shiver.

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock says speculatively. “An army doctor. Any good?”

John stands, unable to remain seated under the alpha’s scrutiny. He lifts his chin. “Very.” If there’s one thing no one can deny, it’s that John is a  _ very  _ good doctor.

“Experience with hurt alphas,” Sherlock continues, stepping forward. “Injuries, violent deaths. Combative medicine.”

John’s mouth quirks. Combative medicine indeed. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s chin lifts and he idly toys with his gloves. “A lot of violent death,” he repeats

“Oh, yeah,” John says. “Enough to last a lifetime.”

“Care to see some more?”

The breath John didn’t realize he’d been holding whooshes out of his body. “Oh, god yes.”

Sherlock smiles.

John, as it turns out, would do anything for that smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for you patience! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

_ Clara is going to kill me _ , John realizes in the cab ride over.  _ I’m going to a crime scene. Me! With the whole of Scotland Yard _ . He’s beginning to marvel at his own stupidity.

Surreptitiously, he glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. They’re in an alpha-proof cab but there’s a wrinkle of tension in his brow that speaks of strain. Cars aren’t the nicest for alphas and John can’t imagine it’s any fun now, despite the muffled sensory input.

“You have questions,” Sherlock says out of the blue. He’s noticed John watching him.

John fights not to blush. “Yes. I do.”

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow. “You can ask.”

_ Where to start? _

John takes a deep breath. “Why are the police investigating suicides?”

“The police are investigating serial suicides,” Sherlock says. “The why is fairly self-explanatory. Next.”

Right, Sherlock was apparently, like many alphas, a twat.

“Right,” John says. “And, um, why are they involving you?”

“There’s precedent for the police seeking the counsel of an alpha,” Sherlock says. He sounds bland and John, even if he hadn’t already known, would have seen it for the misdirection it was, given the tone.

“This is different,” John says. “That man, DI Lestrade? He came to you specifically. I looked you up online. It said you’re a private detective.”

Sherlock gives him a bit more of his attention. “But?”

John feels like he’s about to say something foolish. He charges on. “The police don’t go to detectives, not even alpha ones.” 

Sherlock looks bored. “Yes, well, I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.” Despite his expression, there’s a hint of pride in his words.

John decides to push it a bit. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Ah, there’s the line.

Sherlock makes no outward movement but John can smell the other man’s sharp irritation. “You didn’t go home last night. Instead, you visited your brother’s omega, interesting because one would normally expect you to visit your blood relation instead.”

John’s blood runs cold and he can feel his face harden into a blank mask. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You seemed surprised.”

“How did you know?”

Sherlock scoffs. “ Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad but not sunbathing. You rub your shoulder every once in awhile and wince, like you expect it to still hurt. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic: wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John can’t help but feel awed through his wariness. “And how did you know I visited Clara?” He stops, frowning. “How did you even know about Clara?”

“Your phone—it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches—not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The engraving told me everything I needed to know.”

John doesn’t see how this has anything to do with Clara quite yet. “The engraving?”

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara: who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently; this model's only six months old. Bond in trouble, then—six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left  _ him _ , he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But  _ no _ , he wanted rid of it—he left  _ her _ . He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch.  You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you  _ don't _ like his drinking.”

John frowns. He supposes he can accept Sherlock’s leap in logic except for one thing. “How do you know Harry’s an alpha? Or that Clara is an Omega?”

Sherlock taps the side of his nose. “I have a better sense of smell than most. When you arrived today it was clear to me that you’d spent time with an omega. You don’t strike me as a man to indulge in the red light district which means you knew this person. You don’t have any distant relations and, after being in the military for so long, I doubt you have any friends left in London that you would go to. That says it’s someone you know, someone you might want to check in on. Since I’d already deduced that you were more sympathetic to Harry’s wife than Harry, it wasn’t a far distance to leap. You went to check on Clara last night to see how she was handling her alpha’s rejection.” Sherlock sits back smugly. “See, you were right.”

John, still reeling from the rush of words, blinks dumbly at him. “ _ I  _ was right? Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult  _ amateurs _ .” Sherlock settles back into his seat imperiously.

There’s silence in the cab as John attempts to process everything. He’d known all that? From his  _ phone _ ? And a tan line? What else could this man do?

“That was...extraordinary,” John says finally. He nods once to himself, heart still beating fast. “Absolutely extraordinary.”

Sherlock eyes him oddly. “That’s not what people normally say.”

John thinks about the more sensitive aspects Sherlock had touched on from the alcoholism to the dissolving bond. Also the insinuation that John might hire an omega prostitute. “What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughs. “Fair enough.”

Sherlock, for some reason, seems pleased.

They arrive at their destination a few minutes later, a dark street in Brixton. There’s the bright shock of police tape out front, manned by Scotland Yard.

John knows it’s silly, but he can’t help trying to look as  civilian and law-abiding as possible. In case they can smell him breaking the law.

_ Pull it together, John. _

“What did I miss?” Sherlock asks as they walk up.

John blinks. In reality, Sherlock had gotten the bare bones of it, which was alarming. The bits he’d missed were the bits John didn’t want Sherlock to know. 

Like the fact that he hadn’t honestly been checking on Clara, his sister’s ex, but had been instead reactivating his right hand in his criminal goings on.

“There’s always something,” the alpha prompts.

John goes for the safest part of Sherlock’s deductions. “You were right, Harry and I don’t get on and it has nothing to do with our dynamics. Clara and Harry split three months ago because of Harry’s alcoholism. They’re scheduled to have their bond broken.”

Normal people would have looked askance at the mention of a bond breaking. It was considered shameful and a mark of defectiveness on behalf of both the omega and alpha.

Sherlock is not, John knows, a normal person.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t expect to get everything right.”

John feels like he wants to laugh but schools his expression. “Harry is short for Harriet.”

He doesn’t expect the alpha to stop suddenly or for the abrupt and powerful spike of irritation to hit him full in the face.

“Sister.  _ Sister _ !” Sherlock hisses.

He’s not angry, exactly, but his motions are jerky, aggressive. John doesn’t think he’ll turn that aggression on him, but he doesn’t know this man that well yet despite the ease he feels in the other’s presence.

“What am I supposed to do here?” John asks. He hopes the misdirection will distract Sherlock.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock mutters darkly. He stalks towards the police line, totally ignoring John’s question.

John, somewhat helplessly, follows.

The officers part at Sherlock’s approach, looking uneasily out of the corners of their eyes. John picks up some discontented whispers and he frowns. Is Sherlock not well-liked by the police? Why? Because of his ranking?

“Hello, freak,” one woman calls. She’s pretty and well-dressed for the detective her badge declares her as. John might be more appreciative of the struggle she must have gone through as a female beta to get her position if he wasn’t too busy being horrified.

_ Freak _ ? She was baiting an alpha, was she insane?

John, of course, has done the same thing more than once in his life, but that was different. As an omega he has a limited immunity to the ranking and, as a Watson, he’d had a fair bit of practice handling rampaging alphas. This detective on the other hand? She was ranked almost as low as John’s cover,  _ and completely stupid. _

“Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock says, seemingly unaffected by the abrasive nature of the woman’s greeting. “I’m here to see DI Lestrade.”

The beta crosses her arms, looking unimpressed. “Why?”

And now she’s questioning him? John looks at the woman, wondering if there’s something he’s missing. He finds it in the faint trembling of her hands that she can’t quite hide and the uncertain shift of weight from one foot to the next.

“I think he wants me to have a look,” Sherlock says, affecting surprise. He’s still relaxed and there’s a bit of a spiteful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John understands two things in that moment. One, Sherlock has better control than any alpha John had ever met. Two, he was playing with the beta, cat and mouse.

“Why do you bait him if you’re afraid of him?” John asks the woman. He can’t imagine she doesn’t know what Sherlock’s doing. It almost sounds like this is routine to them.

Donovan’s nostrils flare. “A beta. You’re bringing betas with you now, freak? Couldn’t find an omega that could be bought?”

“Sergeant Sally Donovan, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock says, eyes narrow. “My colleague.”

John is surprised by Sherlock’s words. Instead of defending himself, which most alphas would have done at the insinuation an omega didn’t want them, he’d stepped in on John’s behalf. By calling John his colleague, he was raising the doctor up to his status, insisting that Donovan treat them the same.

It might have worked if this woman wasn’t, apparently, actively suicidal.

She breathes hard through her nose. “How did someone like you get a colleague?” Her eyes take in John’s sweater, the wear on his jeans. By her expression, she isn’t impressed.

Neither is John.

“How does someone like you get to be a Sergeant?” he asks. He honestly wants to know. “You’re deliberating baiting a consultant, nevermind the fact that he’s an alpha.”

Donovan looks between John and Sherlock. “Oh my god, he’s fooled you as well.”

“Come on,” Sherlock says irritably. He holds up the police line. “Let’s go.”

John frowns but ducks under the line. It brings him close enough to learn that Donovan is probably considered a beta of middling rank and also, strangely, smells of male cologne.

“He can’t go in there,” Donovan says, holding up her hand. Sherlock ignores her and, since she’s ignoring John, he follows along without much of a fight.

She’s a bit like a terrier, he thinks, watching her repeat that John can’t come in. Completely blind to what’s really going on.

John, thankfully less blind than Donovan, sees the other alpha perhaps a moment after Sherlock does.

John tenses as the alpha comes blustering out of the house in an absurd-looking yellow suit. The man’s got a ferocious scowl on his face and he’s leaking enough pheremones to make the beta officers back off slightly.

John already doesn’t like him. Alphas like that, in the army, got binned before getting out of basic. There’s no room for such poor control on a battlefield.

Sherlock looks contemptuous as he approaches the other alpha, hands still casually in his pockets. “Anderson.”

Ah, that explains that then, John thinks. He begins to look for Lestrade who, as he recalls, promised to stave off the pissing match.

Anderson gets right up in Sherlock’s face, teeth bared. He manages to maneuver to that he’s standing on the curb with Sherlock on the street.

Anderson is still shorter than the other alpha.

“I won’t have you contaminating my crime scene,” Anderson snarls. He pulls his shoulders back, attempting to make himself look bigger.

Unlike Donovan, Sherlock doesn’t toy with this one. He stays right in Anderson’s space and, suddenly, seems to be about three times bigger than he is. John feels the dominance roll over him and has to suppress a shiver.

_ Strong _ , his Omega side whispers,  _ stronger than any other. _

John concurs. He would be very hesitant to go up against Sherlock Holmes.

Then, all at once, the dominance disappears and Sherlock is a tall, imposing man, staring into the face of a cowed alpha. When Anderson realizes he’s free of Sherlock’s will, he goes right back up into Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock doesn’t give him the chance to keep yelling.

“Interesting that your omega is away from home again,” Sherlock says. His gray eyes glint in the streetlight. “Tell me, will she be away for long?”

Anderson’s jaw firms. “Come on, don’t pretend you worked that out for yourself. Someone told you.” His eyes flick to Donovan almost unconsciously.

_ Oh,  _ John thinks,  _ oh no, that won’t end well. _

He is, as usual when he has a hunch, right.

“No one told me that,” Sherlock says. “Your cologne did.”

Anderson’s brow furrows. “I’m an alpha, I don’t wear--” He stops suddenly and blanches.

Sherlock smiles and it is not very nice at all. “Of course not, even a piss poor alpha like you can’t stand to have such a strong, artificial odor hanging about. Who wouldn’t know that? A beta, one who intended it as a gift. Not really a platonic thing, is it, cologne? Hm, I’d say not. Coincidentally, there’s a beta here wearing that exact scent. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Donovan?”

Donovan, standing slightly behind John, seems to choke on air. 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Please, Donovan, fear only intensifies the stench.”

Anderson finds his tongue. “I--I don’t know what you’re implying! My omega and I are doing quite-- I wouldn’t with--”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m not implying anything,” Sherlock says, rocking back on his heels. He never stops staring Anderson down. “I’m sure Sally came over for a chat. And judging by the state of her knees, she scrubbed your floors.” Sherlock sweeps past the sputtering Anderson and into the house. “John.”

John keeps his head down as he walks by Anderson. He doesn’t want to be the one to break the Alpha out of his speechlessness after that.

They meet Lestrade in the foyer next to a table of crime scene gear. There are gloves, scent dissolutions, and what appears to be a hundred separate, alpha-proof containers. There’s also a stack of suits, in blue instead of Anderson’s terrible yellow, that are also alpha-proof.

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asks, jerking his thumb at John.

Sherlock bites out, “He’s with me.” 

Lestrade holds up his hands. “Sherlock, I can barely have you on scene, there’s no way--”

Sherlock rounds on him, seemingly fed up with being questioned. “I said,” he says deliberately, “he’s with me.”

Lestrade stares at him for a beat and then sighs. “You’ll need on of these suits then. Can’t have unregistered personnel dropping personal scent markers before the scene is processed.”

John acquiesces silently, glancing at Sherlock. He’s had to be in his fair share of alpha-proof suits for less than legal reasons and it feels strange to be putting on one by order of a DI.

Sherlock doesn’t put one on. John thinks it has more to do with the taller man’s tendency to march to the beat of his own drum than any dramatic alpha reasons.

They climb what seems to be a hundred stairs to the top floor of the dilapidated building. It’s been abandoned for years and for good reason. John can smell mold in the walls.

“In here,” Lestrade says, brushing past Sherlock to enter first. Sherlock seems  not to care that the beta moved before him, either because it’s the DI’s crime scene or because Sherlock’s simply above small dominance displays. From the interaction outside, John leans toward the latter.

John takes one step into the room and knows something is very, very wrong. On autopilot, he walks the rest of the way in and watches as Sherlock begins to examine the woman on the ground.

Surreptitiously, John inhales again. The scent he’s getting is almost impossible to discern. Only someone exposed to the same chemicals would be able to pick it out of a room already smelling of acidic death and sharp mold.

John is very,  _ very  _ familiar with the chemicals in an artificial scent.

John needs to be closer to tell more.

Difficult to do inconspicuously when there’s a DI in the room with you and, arguably, one of the smartest men in the world. Whose brother, according to Clara, might be even smarter and a bit of a puppet master.

_ Shit _ .

“Jennifer Wilson,” Lestrade says. “Thirty-two, an Alpha, rank 1. We’re running her cards to see what she’s been up to.”

John runs a critical eye over the deceased, stomach still dropping from his realization. Was that the truth? Was this woman an alpha? Or merely shamming at being one?

“She’s German,” Anderson says from behind him. John jumps, having been too busy panicking to hear him, but Anderson’s eyes are focused on Sherlock. He jerks his chin. “Rache. It’s German for revenge.”

John doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He looks where Anderson had gestured and is horrified to see the woman had used her last bit of strength to carve “Rache” in the floor.

Sherlock gets up from his examination, phone in hand. He seems to be searching for something and keeps his eyes on his screen as he walks across the room and slams the door in Anderson’s face.

John takes the opportunity to edge closer to the body. He can see now that her nails are pink and match her overcoat, that her hair is wind-blown or perhaps tossed from struggling with a murderer. He’s still not close enough to get a proper whiff of the woman.

“I take it she’s not German,” Lestrade says dryly. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered that Sherlock had just ejected an alpha on his force from the room.

“Of course she’s not German,” Sherlock says with disgust. “She’s from Cardiff and only intended to stay in London for one night. So far so obvious.”

“Sorry, obvious?” John asks, frowning. How’d Sherlock get from German to Cardiff? More importantly, was that true? Cardiff had been well out of John’s dealing zone so it’s possible what he’s smelling is coming from an unknown supplier.

According to Clara, there are quite a few of those with inferior products.

“Dr. Watson, if you would,” Sherlock says, nodding to the body. John understands he means for him to conduct his own exam and steps forward. Lestrade stops him with a raised arm.

“I can’t have a beta conducting their own exam,” Lestrade says, sounding exasperated. “I get away with it when I need you, but Dr. Watson doesn’t.” His eyes flick to John and, as an afterthought, he says, “No offense.”

John certainly doesn’t want to disagree with a DI, so he nods in acceptance.

Sherlock huffs in irritation. “It’s not about dynamics, it’s about skill. John’s a medical man, this is a medical problem. Simple.”

Lestrade’s arm wavers. “I have a whole team of alpha scientists on site…”

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock declares. “And you need me, not them.” By his tone, he knows he’s won.

Helplessly, Lestrade stares at him. “Yes, I do.”

John is impressed by the honesty and his opinion of the DI rises considerably. He watches the exchange like a wildlife observer. Sherlock has, twice, tonight, refused to use his natural dominance to get his way. His force of personality seems to be enough, so far..

It’s a refreshing change, even if it speaks to a frightening degree of intelligence and control in the alpha.

“Dr. Watson?” Sherlock prompts.

“Right,” John says, starting forward. He crouches down on the floor and, first, picks up her right hand. He examines it closely, noting the lack of split skin. Just for appearance’s sake, he checks her pulse.

“We can surmise the woman is dead,” Sherlock says dryly.

John flushes with embarrassment. “Just checking.”

He gets closer to the woman, checking her pupil dilation, looking in her mouth, and smelling her breath. There’s the smell of vomit but no alcohol. He can smell something that might be some sort of poison but, over the stomach acid, it’s hard to tell.

He takes another surreptitious sniff next to her neck, right by her scent glands. This close, he can tell that this isn’t his product. It’s some knock off and it isn’t accompanied by a scent blocker to make it the most effective it can be. Normally, it wouldn’t be effective  _ at all  _ without a scent blocker but this is...subtle. A subtle cover, making a deficient product work despite the odds.

To be sure, he takes up her hand again, this time looking at the underlying bone structure and the surface of her palm. With a frown, he feels from the back of her head, down past her neck to the beginning of her lumbar vertebrae.

He sits back on his heels, sure that he’s right.

“Well?” Sherlock asks. He sounds impatient.

John isn’t the least bothered by his tone of voice. “Well,” he says, unconsciously mimicking the alpha, “cause of death is asphyxiation. She vomited and choked on it. There was no alcohol on her breath but there was some chemical that might have killed her.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “Look, I can give you five minutes but I need everything you’ve got.”

Sherlock holds up his hand, eyes still trained on John. “What else? I saw you touch her back.”

John nods. He’s abruptly conscious of his position, kneeling in front of the alpha and looking up at him, exposing his throat. He coughs and stands.

“I’m fairly confident that the rank on her ID is wrong,” John tells Lestrade and Sherlock.

Lestrade starts and then his eyes narrow. “How could you possibly know that?”

_ Because I can smell the Alpha scent bar on her, and only the lower ranks have that citrus kicker. Because her glands smell like wood smoke which usually correlates with a higher rank. _

As a beta, John shouldn’t be able to smell either of those things. Even as an alpha, he shouldn’t be able to smell the first.

Luckily, he’s got a back up.

“Her spine,” John says. “You can expect a lack of musculature development from the neck down rank three and under. It comes from not initiating dominance fights. As an alpha, she wouldn’t have cause to fight with betas and as a rank One she would know better than to challenge alphas with a higher rank. Yet she has prominent muscles about her neck. She stood straight and often made this motion--” he just his chin out aggressively “--to challenge other alphas. Her hands show evidence of some alpha fights, broken skin over the knuckles that’s since healed. There’s some abnormal skeletal development in her hands. It’s commonly seen in high ranking alphas, a sort of evolutionary brass knuckles. You have it too,” John finishes, nodding at Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock is watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Why would she pretend to be a lower rank?”

John has to think about that one. “I suppose it might have been for her job? It’s not fair but a lot of companies, especially in the entertainment industry, won’t hire high ranking alphas. There’s some concern that they’re less personable because of their status. She could have pretended to be lower ranking to get hired.”

“You were right, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says. He looks smug. “You are very good at your job.”

John can’t help but glow at the praise. The army had been rather strict with compliments, only approving of John through his rising rank. 

He tries to pretend it isn’t because it feels like  _ his  _ alpha has complimented him. Sherlock isn’t his. Obviously.

_ Get it together, John _ .

Lestrade rubs a hand over his face. “Great. So we’ve got an alpha of a high rank committing suicide. That will look great in the papers.” He looks up. “Two minutes, Sherlock, what’d you get?”

Sherlock’s expression melts back into the cold one he seems fond of sporting. “Mid 30’s, professional woman going by her clothes, most likely a person in the media from the pink. She--”

John listens in amazement as Sherlock breaks the woman down, constructing her behavior from her matching outfit and tarnished jewelry. Mrs. Wilson, according to Sherlock, is a media person, a serial adulterer, was from Cardiff but was visiting London for one night, and had been married for ten or more years.

More than that, when questioned, Sherlock could detail exactly how he came to each deduction.

“That’s brilliant,” John says at the end of it all. He’s aware that his tone is bordering on awe. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Sherlock, for lack of a better word, preens.

Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice their interaction. “Why do you keep saying suitcase? She didn’t have a case.”

“The splatter on the back of her leg,” Sherlock says. He’s practically vibrating on the spot. “Small case, rolling, most likely the same shade of pink. It will have an organizer in it and we can find out why she was writing ‘Rachel.’”

“Rachel,” John says. He thinks. “Makes more sense than German I suppose.”

“I’d say so,” Sherlock says. “Now, tell me, where is the case?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “I’m telling you there wasn’t one.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he goes barging out of the room, demanding for someone to hand over the case. John hears him start down the stairs and goes out to see Sherlock practically sprinting to the ground floor.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade calls, coming up beside John. “Where are you going?”

“It’s murder!” Sherlock says. “I don’t know how. They chew, swallow, all of them take the pills but it’s murder, serial murder. We’ve got a serial killer! Love those. And of alphas! The highest risk prey in the world and this man has killed not one, not two, but four! With no trace of a physical fight!”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Lestrade calls down.

“Where is her case?” Sherlock asks pointedly. “Hm? Did she eat it? The killer must have driven her here, oh!” He stops and looks around as if seeing the stairwell for the first time. “Oh! Serial killers, always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

Lestrade splutters. “We can’t just wait for him to make a mistake!”

“We don’t have to!” Sherlock says. He starts descending. “Look at her, really look at her!  We have a mistake. Go to Cardiff and find her relations. Find Rachel!”

“Of course we will,” Lestrade says irritated. “But what mistake?”

“Pink!” Sherlock shouts and disappears from view.

Leaving John, a criminal, in the middle of Scotland Yard’s finest.

Luckily, they seem to have forgotten him. That’s why he chose beta, rank 3 for his primary scent. Beta, rank 3 is forgettable. They’re not threats but they’re not weak enough to be easy pickings for, say, Beta rank 6, like Lestrade.

He lets the crime scene people brush by him, a little at a loss. No one is paying him any attention so he eases down the stairs, alpha-proof suit swishing with every step. He takes the suit off and throws it in a bin marked “biohazard” where he can smell several other scents. They’d mask his and prevent anyone from taking a scent sample from the interior of his suit.

He makes it outside without being stopped and stares blankly at the dark road around him. He’d been too focused on Sherlock, too enraptured, to get a proper look at where they are. Brixton, right? But where in Brixton?

A small part of him thinks he might be  _ compromised  _ by being around Sherlock. A bigger part of him thinks that that is ridiculous. Obviously.

There’s no point in standing around all night so John walks to the edge of the police line.

“You looking for Sherlock?” the unpleasant beta from before asks. She’s stopped in the middle of her conversation to, John assumes, heap more unpleasantness on him. “He’s gone. Alpha like him dashes off, doesn’t matter if he’s leaving someone in a lurch. ‘S why he doesn’t have a mate.”

“I’m an adult,” John says, choosing to ignore that last part. If he didn’t he’s ask stupid things like  _ do you reckon Sherlock is in the market for one then?  _ He clears his throat. “I’ll just have to find my own way back.” He turns purposefully and is chagrined to see that nothing has become miraculously familiar. “You, um, wouldn’t happen to know where I can catch a cab, do you?”

She levels a pitying look at him and points down the road. “Try the main road.” She holds the police tape up for him and waits until he’s on the other side to speak again. “You know, you’re not his friend.”

John turns back to her, eyebrows raised. “We’ve only just met.”

She continues like she didn’t hear him. “He’s too good for the likes of you and me, or thinks he is. I doubt he’d even have time for an omega if it spread its legs for him.”

John, as an omega, is immediately offended by this. “I doubt that’s any of your-- our concern.”

She chuckles and steps forward, eyes hard. “Word of advice? Stay away from him.”

John lifts his chin, not liking the familiarity she keeps presuming with him. “Why?”

“Because he’s here to get off,” she says. “He likes asserting his dominance and getting in on crime scenes. He likes standing over the body and pretending to solve it. The weirder the case the better.  And you know what? One of these days he’s going to be reason there’s a body.”

That, frankly, sounded ridiculous. “Oh yeah? Why would he do that?”

Donovan raises her eyebrows like she can’t believe he doesn’t know. She looks decidedly less pretty now. “Sherlock Holmes is one of four 10 rank alphas in the country, didn’t you know? Want to know why?”

John remains silent.

“Because 10 ranks never last as long as he has,” she says. “They burn out. Die. He hasn’t. It makes him a freak. A psychopath with too much power for his own good with the tendency to get bored.”

She’s called away before John has the chance to answer. He doesn’t know what he would have said anyway.

He’d known that Sherlock was 10 rank but never thought anything of it. He hadn’t known it was such a rarity or that there was any risk involved. He shouldn’t take anything that foul beta said to heart, but her words leave him with questions.

What does it say that the first alpha he’s clicked with is 10 rank? What does it say that he already can’t think of leaving him alone?

Could John afford to keep being around Sherlock? Something inside lurches at the thought. Even if he couldn’t, did he care?

He walks with these thoughts drowning out his surroundings. He’d like to think that’s why he didn’t notice the phone ringing and ringing and ringing--

_ Would someone please answer that? _

He stops a mile away from the crime scene and stares at the phone booth where the ringing is coming from. He becomes aware that that ringing sound has been following him this entire time, moving from phone booth to phone booth with him.

All thoughts of Sherlock are dashed out of his head. Someone wants to talk to him. Who? Why?

Only one way to find out. John steps into the phone booth and answers the phone.

“Hello?” he asks. His eyes scan his surroundings, aware that if this was an attack he’d put himself into an extremely vulnerable position.

“Across the street, the building on the left,” a male voice says. Mid forties, officious, most likely an alpha from the level of threat coming across through his voice alone. “There’s a camera. Do you see it?”

John, with another quick glance around the booth, squints across the street. There’s a white CCTV camera there, watching the traffic. “Yes.”

“Watch,” the man commands.

_ Oh yeah _ , John thinks, grimly amused,  _ definitely an alpha _ .

He is less than amused when the camera in question very deliberately twists so he’s no longer in its view.

“Who is this?” he asks, voice flat. There’s no one suspicious outside of the booth, just commuters and cars. That didn’t mean he isn’t being watched.

“Building ahead of you, right corner,” the man says.

John doesn’t turn, just flicks his eyes up. There’s another CCTV camera and, like the first, it scans away from him very slowly and deliberately.

John, apparently, doesn’t need to find the man controlling the CCTV. The man has found him.

Why? He hasn’t moved in London yet, what could this man possibly know?

“And finally,” the man says, “the traffic camera to your right--”

“This is very intimidating,” John says, voice tight, “or would be if I knew who you are.”

There’s a weighty pause. “Get in the car, Dr. Watson.” The man sounds distinctly displeased and it carries into the sound of him hanging up.

John sets the phone on its cradle and turns just as a black town car comes pulling up to the curb.

John has two choice, as he sees it. He can get into the car and throw himself on the mercy of an unknown danger. The payoff might be information on how to evade CCTV, or at least how the man knew what John was planning almost before he’d planned it.

Or, he could  _ not  _ get into the car and hope a man who calls  _ every single pay phone _ for an entire mile to get his attention doesn’t have a contingency plan to  _ make  _ John get in the car. He’s an army trained medic, he knows better than most how to hurt someone, but he’s not bullet proof.

John gets into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely thrilled with this chapter-- it's still VERY close to the show (mostly because I love the show). Up next is a meeting with you know who and that's where things really start to diversify, I promise!

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta read, if you can tell. I'm open to a beta if anyone wants to do it. Otherwise I'm just going to continue writing and posting lol.  
> Leave your twitter/tumblr/email in the comments if you'd like.


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